Fade
by northernexposure
Summary: Ruth is not naïve. *SPOILERS for 10.1* A very short piece from Ruth's POV.


**Fade**

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><p>Ruth is not naïve. She knows the second that she hears Harry say Elena's name that they were lovers. She is unconcerned by the idea that Harry's past is propagated by love affairs. Most people's are, certainly those of his age and experience. She had known that about him long before the Gavriks reappeared on the scene – had found out the specifics, by covert and unethical means, before she'd even set foot on the Grid, all those many moons ago. Before she had fallen so deeply in love with her new boss that neither death nor vengeance could keep her away.<p>

No, it's not the knowledge of what they were. It's not even that look that passes between them. It's the first time they've seen each other in thirty years, and it lasts for less than ten seconds, but it is powerful, that look. It is no coincidence that Ruth is the one to recognize what it contains.

The woman – Elena – is twenty years Ruth's senior, making her the same age, more or less exactly, as Harry. She is tall, her back is straight, she is slim, and she wears the flame of her red hair like a pennant. _Here I am. This is me. I am fearful of nothing. _Ruth is fascinated by her impossibly high cheekbones, by the efficiency with which she wears her scant cosmetics. She is beautiful, and she knows it, but Elena Gavrik finds her beauty irrelevant. She has the confidence that people who have never had to fight to stand out from a crowd always do. But Ruth realises that beyond that, she is strong, of character and in resolve. But then, she would have to be, to risk what she has risked for so very many years. And oh yes, she is strong. She is… impressive.

It is not hard to see why Harry would have been in love with her. Then… or now.

Ruth is not a jealous woman. She understands that life is too short for such insecurities. She is not vain, either – she was not born with the looks or poise that have ever allowed her to be. Still, it takes her by surprise. Something has faded in his eyes when he looks at her, as if he is not seeing her, but something overlaying her. Someone, of course, would be more accurate. Elena has burned his vision, her silhouette stamped on his retina.

And so Ruth stands with this woman, playing a part, and wonders how it happened, way back then. Was it instant? Had they met one moment, and the next been fumbling their way toward the nearest bed, helpless against their passion? Or had it taken time, the slow burn of admiration growing into something more? She watches Elena's lips, the economy of their movement, the slow, soft curve of their smile, and wonders what she said to him. What she did, with those lips. How easily she fell for the younger version of the man that now stands across the room from them. What he said to her, how he had touched her, and how often.

Suddenly, incongruously and inappropriately, it occurs to Ruth how ridiculous it is that she and Harry have never had sex. Two adults, so embroiled in each other's lives, too old for the angst they have harboured - so much longing, so much hope, so much repression, and all without respite. How absurd that seems, suddenly. How – how _childish_. They could have least have had that. She could have least have had the knowledge of him that this woman had.

And in the same moment, Ruth realises that in fact, she has never stopped hoping. She has never stopped repressing her desire, because that desire has never left her. She only buried it, for a time, beneath anger and self-recrimination, both of which have faded somewhat in the two months since John Bateman's death. It could have been Harry, you see, that had gone plunging off that rooftop. She'd thought it _was_ Harry, for an hour or so. And yet, what had she done, when she'd found out it wasn't? Had she gone to him? Had she told him how she'd put her hands over her face and sobbed, careless of who was watching, when she'd thought it was his death that they were hearing? No, of course she hadn't. She'd waited, as if she had all the time in the world. Because she'd thought she _did_ have all the time in the world. She'd thought it was just down to her. That all she would have to do was reach out and take his hand one day, and say, "I'm ready, Harry. I'm ready now. Thanks. Thanks for waiting."

_Fool_, she thinks to herself, as he runs after the Gavriks following the assassination attempt. _Ruth, you stupid, stupid fool_.

Harry is distracted when he says goodnight. He kisses her cheek and thanks her for being there. He squeezes her hand and then walks away, and all the time she feels something fading. Something she didn't know could fade.

She smiles to herself, though there is no mirth in it. It is supremely ironic, she thinks, that in the end it is not her past that will undo them, but his.

[END]


End file.
